He's Going to Be Fine
by Noxbait
Summary: A few short scenes, filling in some pieces during the season 1 finale/season 2 opener. He was going to be fine. Had to be fine. Because what in the world were they going to do if he wasn't fine?
1. Chapter 1

Hello all! This is my very first published Supernatural tale. My awesomely super fantastic Beta, DamonsGirl92, and I are working on polishing up a SPN novel we collaborated on over the past month and I hope to start publishing it next week. But I have been playing with this one for awhile in my head, finally wrote it down, and had the burning need to publish something. Here's hoping I've successfully transitioned from a solely Stargate writer to a dual fandom writer! :) ~_Noxbait_

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**Set during S1E22 Devil's Trap**

He wasn't fighting.

That worried me. Even when he'd been seven and Davie MacLean had been sitting on him, punching him in the face, Sam had fought back. Of course, Davie MacLean had been eight and not a demon, so he hadn't quite packed the same punch. Shaking the fog out of my head, I struggled to roll off the hood of the car I'd been flung into. I looked up as the monster continued trying to crack Sam's skull open.

I'd been helping Dad, trying to get him to the car, when the demon had jumped Sam. Dad hadn't been up to moving on his own at that point, so I eased him to the ground and instinctively took off running toward Sam. Kicking hard enough to take the demon's head off had got me nothing except a free ride into a windshield. Watching as the demon smashed his fist against Sam's bleeding face again and again, I straightened up and lifted the only weapon I had available to me. If I tried to run back over there again, the demon was just going to fling me back into a car. Or worse. And if I waited any longer, Sam would be dead.

So I fired.

And it felt good. Watching that demon die gave me no small degree of satisfaction. Of course, I was gonna be in trouble when Dad found out I wasted a bullet. I felt a twist of guilt coupled with the realization that Dad probably wouldn't have used the Colt. What he would have done instead, I didn't want to consider. I stared down at the demon I'd just killed.

The _man_ I'd killed.

Because the demon had been possessing a human and I'd killed them both without any hesitation. I remained frozen in place for a long moment; chilled. There seemed to be no limit to what I would do to protect Sam. To protect my family. It scared me. But Sam was lying there, beaten, bleeding and almost unconscious and I pushed every thought except for survival out of my head, I slid the gun into my coat and hurried over to Sam's side. I needed to get him up and moving. _Now_. And it didn't look like it was going to be easy. He didn't even seem aware of me at his side.

"Sam!" I grabbed his arm, pulling him up, trying to rouse him. We didn't have time for finesse at this point. "Sam, come on."

He was dead weight and I knew if I didn't get him on his feet soon, didn't get him moving, we were going to be in big trouble. He still wasn't responding to me, just leaning up against me weakly. It didn't take a genius to know he had a concussion. Had to keep him moving, get him up before he lost consciousness completely. Dragging him to his feet, I found myself supporting most of his weight until he finally managed to get his legs under him. More or less. Holding him up, my eyes were drawn to the corpse once more.

I'd fired that gun without a single thought for the man that demon had been possessing. All I had been thinking about, all I'd seen, was a monster killing my little brother. And that was all it had taken for me to pull that Colt out and blow the demon to hell. Mentally, I gave myself another shake. Could not think about that now. I had to stay focused, get moving. Had to get back to Dad. I had to get them out of here. Had to protect them. I pulled Sam's arm over my shoulder and dragged him forward.

"Come on." I encouraged, "Come on, we gotta get out of here."

Dad hadn't moved by the time we reached him. I let go of Sam and started pulling Dad up. He wasn't any more alert and no easier to get up than Sam had been. Vaguely, I noted Sam go down to brace himself on the pavement and I prayed I wasn't going to have to pick him up again. Arms shaking, I held Dad up while reaching out for the weapons bag, then, just like always, Sam was there to help. Together we got Dad up and moving and made our unsteady run for the car.

We made it without any further incident and Sam managed to get the door open in time for me to practically drop Dad into the back seat. He was unconscious by now. I tried to push him in further, but I couldn't move him. I called out to Sam to go around, but heard him throwing up somewhere behind me. I couldn't say I was surprised, but, for a moment, I almost panicked. We were exposed, one man down, and another not far behind. It was all on me. There were still demons around. We needed to be so far gone it wasn't funny.

Then Dad was moving, being pulled into the car and I looked up across the back seat into the sheet white face of my brother. I nodded my appreciation and pushed Dad's legs into the car, slamming the door and getting behind the wheel. Sam slammed the other door and had stumbled forward to the passenger's side door by the time I had the engine running. The second he was inside, even before he'd pulled the door closed, I was burning rubber. We'd been on the road for all of five minutes, my eyes glued to the rear view mirror, watching for any sign of pursuit, when Sam broke the silence.

"Dean."

Sam's voice was soft, unsteady and I glanced over at him in concern. He had a hand on the dashboard, leaning forward and looking up at me like he so often does. Like I have all the answers. It was great when we were kids. Great that my kid brother thought I was smart and always had the answers he needed. He believed anything I said. Always. Without question. Not so great now, though, when our dad was injured and unconscious in the back seat and we were being pursued by demons and I didn't have any answers for him. Dad was supposed to have the answers.

I didn't have any answers.

"Sam?" I asked, then quickly decided it wasn't the time to talk. He was swallowing convulsively and his face was drenched in sweat. Two seconds and I was going to have a mess on my hands. I quickly reached over and shoved his head down between his knees. "Keep your head down and don't you dare throw up on the upholstery."

"Dean?" His voice was muffled.

"What?"

"What are we going to do?" His head was coming up again.

I pushed his head back down, held it in place for a moment, and said, "Sammy, so help me if you puke on that carpet, I'm making you scrub it all out."

He was silent for a few minutes, except for the occasional groan as we bumped over the uneven road. I gritted my teeth and glanced in the rear view mirror. No one seemed to be following us. But I wasn't stopping. Not until we ran out of gas anyway.

"Is he going to be ok?"

"He'll be fine." I answered and almost convinced myself with that confidence I had forced into in my voice. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Dad was still out for the count. But Sam was staring at me with fear in his glassy eyes and I repeated, "He'll be fine."

I have no idea if he's going to be fine. I'm just saying what Sam needs to hear right now. He's my brother and I'm not opposed to lying to him when it makes him feel better. He'd just been pummeled by a demon, Dad's unconscious, and right now Sam's nothing more than a scared kid. He'd been running the whole year on the hope of finding Dad. Every single day he has been getting up with that hope in his head. That finding Dad was going to solve everything. Solve everything and somehow help him avenge Jess. Because he expected Dad to fix everything. I didn't even believe he could, but I couldn't dash Sam's hopes.

Sam lifted his head a little more and looked up at me miserably. I frowned at him, "You gonna puke?"

He shook his head, winced like he regretted it and asked quietly, "Where are we going?"

"As far away as possible." I hit the interstate and floored it. I stared out the front windshield at the road and again repeated, mostly to myself, "Dad's going to be fine."

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Let me know what you think! Thanks so much. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Set at the end of S2E1 In My Time of Dying**

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Dad's going to be fine.

I'd been sitting in shock ever since Dad had left the room. What he'd said to me...what he'd told me to _do_... I just couldn't wrap my mind around it. Couldn't understand. Why would he say something like that? Why would he tell me? It might have been the lingering aftereffects of the head injury, but I wasn't processing anything very well. I stared at the wall and shook my head. Dad was fine. Banged up, sure, but be was fine. At least I had thought he was fine.

Now, I wasn't so sure. Our conversation left me uneasy. Not just because of what he'd said, but because of how he'd said it. The way he'd been acting. He wasn't fine. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I sat there, trying to keep the world from tilting sideways. I needed to go after him. Needed to make him talk to me again; explain himself. Enough with the cryptic messages, stringing us along all over the country. Enough with him being the commander and me being the good soldier I'd always been. He needed to tell me what was going on and it needed to be the whole truth this time.

Before I could get to my feet, though, I heard Sam shouting for help. My heart skipped a beat. I heard the commotion down the hall and stumbled to the door of the hospital room, unsteady and lightheaded. I was alive, but I wasn't anywhere near at full strength. Grabbing the door frame for dear life, I stared out into the hall as Sam came running up to me. He had tears in his eyes and looked scared. I felt sick to my stomach.

Dad's going to be fine.

"It's Dad." He said, sounding completely broken. Hurting. Afraid.

His hand grabbed my arm before I could say anything and together we headed down the hall. Every step sent jagged shards of pain through my recovering body and I was grateful for Sam's hand on my arm. I wouldn't have made it without him. Everything Dad had just said to me disappeared from my mind as I focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

Dad's going to be fine.

Everything blurred as we hurried down the hall. I almost asked Sam what had happened, but I couldn't get my voice to work. And then we were there, in the doorway of Dad's room and I stared in shock at the flurry of activity. What had happened? Sam still hadn't explained. I wasn't sure if he knew. Dad was on the bed and people were crowded around him. Sam's grip on my arm tightened. Someone tried to push me back, push us away and I finally found my voice.

"No, no, no! It's our dad. It's our dad." I stood my ground, Sam just behind me. I didn't know if he was holding me up or if he was holding himself up. All I knew for sure was that I was going to have a hand shaped bruise on my arm when he let go. If he let go.

Everyone stopped paying attention to us and everything was too bright and too loud and happening all at once. I stared at Dad between the people swarming around him. A mask over his face, monitors beeping, medications and tubes and I couldn't make sense of any of it. What had happened? He'd been fine. Just fine when he'd been talking to me not that long ago. I sucked in a breath, trying to stay focused on the here and now. People running around. Shouting orders.

Dad's going to be fine.

"Let's try an amp of atropine." Words turn into nothing but muffled sounds and they make no sense to me. I'd like to sit down. It feels like we've been standing here for hours, even though it's probably only been a minute or two. If that.

Dad's going to be fine.

"Come on." I say, barely daring to breathe. The desperation of the situation is starting to leak into my foggy head as I realize they're doing CPR. He's coding. He's _dying._

Dad's going to be fine.

"Stop compressions."

"Come on, come on!" I mumble, tears burning my eyes. _Dad's going to be fine…_

"I'll call it." A disembodied voice says, "Time of death, 1041 AM."

Dad's going to be fine.


	3. Chapter 3

Dad wasn't going to be fine.

Dad wasn't fine.

Dad was dead.

"I'm sorry for your loss." Someone said.

I couldn't see the man's face. A doctor maybe? Everything seemed to have gone a surreal black and white and I swallowed hard. Voices continued talking. _Give you some time. We know this is a shock. Take as much time as you need._ I heard words but they meant nothing. I think I nodded; I didn't speak. Couldn't speak. I just wanted everyone to leave us alone. I must have nodded because people slowly drifted away and the room was empty. Except for Dad on the bed. Not fine. And us just outside the doorway.

Not fine either.

We didn't move. I have no idea how long we stood there hovering at the threshold. Probably only a few moments, but it seemed like a lifetime. Frowning, I tried to process what had happened, decipher the confusion, make sense of it all. What _had_ happened? Sam was silent behind me, but I could hear his shaky breaths. He was still trying to snap my arm in half, but it was actually a good thing he was because he was basically holding me up at this point. I hadn't taken my eyes off of Dad during the chaos, but now, I was peripherally aware that someone had thoughtfully put two chairs beside the bed.

A chair sounded good right about now.

"Sam." I cleared my throat and sounded a bit stronger the second time, "Sam, I think we should… We should probably not stand in the hall."

"Yeah. Ok." He said, his voice no stronger than mine had been.

Dad wasn't supposed to die.

I stepped forward and he came with me for the first two steps, then suddenly released my arm. Without the contact, I felt cold and more unsteady. I grabbed the back of the closest chair so I wouldn't fall onto the floor and looked over my shoulder at him. He'd backed up against the wall. Just inside the doorway. Staring at Dad. Not apparently coming closer. Too tired to stay on my feet, I sank into the chair and lowered my head into my hands.

Just needed a minute.

It might have been longer than a minute. I don't know. Someone had politely closed the door at some point. They hadn't said anything and I hadn't bothered to acknowledge them. Forcing my head up, I looked over at the bed. Dad. Not fine. Not breathing. Not alive.

Dead. Dad was dead.

I shuddered and reached out to touch his hand. Still warm. I whispered, "Dad."

No response.

For a moment, I stared at him, fingers on his hand. Watching him as if he would magically wake up and tell me what to do now. Because I had absolutely no idea what to do now. Dad was dead. What was I supposed to do? Thoughts ran together and my head hurt. Needed to get it together, couldn't just sit here. I didn't know what I needed to do, but I was sure there were some sort of arrangements I needed to deal with. I probably should call Bobby.

I heard a shaky breath behind me. Twisting around, I glanced at Sam. He was staring at the floor now and still hadn't moved from his position holding up the wall. I realized this was the first time I'd looked at him, really looked at him, since this mess had started. And he looked terrible. I didn't remember anything from the accident and I'd only gotten the briefest synopsis once I'd awakened. Obviously, Dad and I hadn't been the only ones to take a beating. Everything before the accident was hazy, but I did vividly remember using the Colt on the demon that had been trying to pound Sam's head flat. He hadn't even had time to recover from that before he'd been in the same accident that had nearly killed me. I wondered how bad he'd been injured; and how much he'd been hiding from the staff as he worried over me and Dad.

"Sam?" I asked in concern. He blinked and lifted his eyes to meet mine. I didn't know what to say to him. But right now he needed to sit down as badly as I had. I pushed the second chair back a little and said, "Sit down."

He shook his head slowly and I expected him to say something, but he didn't. I sighed and said, "I should call Bobby."

Calling Bobby became a secondary concern a minute later when Sam's eyes closed and his knees gave out. I watched as he slowly slid down the wall to the floor. Not exactly moving as quickly as I might have had I not felt like crap, I did manage to reach his side in time to keep him from falling over sideways.

"Sam!" I kept a hand on his shoulder and pushed his head up with the other. His skin felt overly warm and I again wondered how much he was trying to hide. He blinked slowly at me, exhaustion and pain written all over his bruised and cut face. Shaking his shoulder, I said, "Sam, come on, man, talk to me."

But he just stared at me, blinking back the tears. He grabbed my arm after a couple seconds; his gaze returning to the bed. Studying him, I decided he was probably in shock and that maybe I should get some help. But I couldn't hold myself up in that crouched position any longer, so I just slumped down next to him. Maybe I was in shock too. Sitting shoulder to shoulder was about the only thing holding either of us upright. Again, I lost all track of time. I don't know how long we sat there in the quiet room trying to come to grips with everything.

After a while, though, Sam asked in a whisper, "What happened?"

While I was relieved that he was coherent enough to finally speak to me, I had no answer for him. I wanted to ask _him_ the same question. Before I could say anything, he went on, a hint of despair in his voice, "What are we going to do?"

I fought back the panic and ache in my chest. He expected _me_ to give him an answer. What were we going to do? Good question, Sam. I shook my head. Couldn't think. I hurt everywhere and felt like I was seeing everything through a haze. Looking up at Dad, I wished with all my heart that I could reverse time. But if I could do that, how far back would I go? A day? A week? Before Mom died? Letting my head rest against the wall, I sighed.

"Dean?" Sam's voice interrupted my thoughts. His voice was still a whisper. "You ok?"

"Just great." I muttered and shifted my head so I could look at him. Exhausted, still shocked eyes were assessing me even as I assessed him. Not sure which of us looked worse, I asked, "You have a phone?"

Sam nodded slowly and reached into his jacket pocket. My attention wandered again as I looked back at Dad. What would he tell me to do right now? I already knew. Go after the demon. Didn't matter what happened, he'd tell me to go after the demon. Go after the demon that had killed Mom. Same mission as always. But now it was the demon that had killed Mom. And Jessica.

And maybe even Dad. I had no way of knowing, of course, but it was a concerning possibility.

Something was pressed into my hand. Sam's phone. Bobby. I dialed Bobby's number, not sure what I was going to say. All too soon I heard his voice.

"This is Bobby."

I took a deep breath and said, "Bobby, it's Dean."

"Dean? Dean Winchester?" Bobby sounded incredulous and I didn't blame him. Last he'd heard, I was in a coma. Surprise.

"Uh, yeah." I hated how shaky my voice sounded, "Long story. Hey, Bobby, we...we, uh, we could use help."  
"You don't sound good, son. What do you need?"

"Can you...if you're still around, can you come by…" I swallowed hard and tried to remember the room number. I finally remembered and gave him the number. "Bobby, Dad...Dad is... He's gone."

I heard an audible sob from next to me and felt Sam trying to move away. Grabbing his arm, I held him in place. I watched as he scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping the tears away, then he leaned back listlessly against the wall, eyes closed. He didn't try to get up again but I didn't let go of his arm. For a second, I listened to Bobby's shock transmitting across the airwaves. Cutting him off I said, "Bobby, can you…just, just get here, ok?"

He didn't sound offended at all with the way I'd interrupted him. He said, "I'm on my way."

I dropped the phone on the floor and pressed my free hand to my eyes. I felt dizzy and cold and like I wanted to go to sleep and then wake up from this nightmare. But there was no waking up from this. Dad was dead.

Like Mom.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. We were alone. Our family had lost another member. It was just me and Sammy now. No hope of finding Dad on the next hunt.

He was dead.

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Would love to hear what you think! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for the delay. Been a pinch busy. Just a short little drabble here. More to come! **

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"Dean."

The quiet voice sounded familiar. It wasn't Dad. It wasn't Sam.

"Dean."

"Bobby?" I mumbled, lifting my head from my hand. The room seemed too bright as I tried to focus on Bobby's face.

"Yeah, it's me." Bobby said quietly. He was crouched down in front of me, face drawn with concern. "You two look like crap."

Shifting uncomfortably on the cold floor, I didn't need a mirror to know he was right. I said, "You got here fast."

"It's been almost an hour since you called me, Dean." His tone was as worried as his face. He touched my shoulder, "You shouldn't even be out of bed, should you?"

"I'm alive. I'm fine." I said, not even trying to sound convincing. _An hour?_ Had it really been that long?

Bobby snorted and said, "Sure you are. You're the same color as the shirt you're wearing." He glanced to my right, then looked back at me. "And he's not any better."

I blinked, shifted and realized he was right. Sam's eyes were still closed, his face tear-stained and pale. Head back against the wall, breathing finally evened out, it looked like he'd fallen asleep at some point. Couldn't say it surprised me. I was taking a wild guess that he hadn't slept more than a few minutes at a time since the accident.

"We gonna skip the part where you tell me what happened?" Bobby asked.

"I don't _know_ what happened, Bobby." I said irritably. "They say I was in a coma. Docs can't explain it. All I remember is waking up feeling like I was choking to death."

"And your dad?" His eyes softened.

I avoided looking at the bed and shrugged. I didn't want to talk about it, think about it, deal with it. Looking back at Bobby, suddenly I was completely at a loss. He seemed to sense it and said, "Ok, son, how about we start by getting you two up off the floor?"

I nodded. Getting off the floor sounded like a nearly impossible task, but it also seemed a whole lot easier than thinking about what had happened to Dad. Straightening up against tight muscles, I muttered, "Sam?"

He didn't respond, so I elbowed him, got him stirring, looking at me. He glanced at Bobby, then back at me and finally whispered, "Dean?"

"Yeah. Whaddya say we get off the floor?" I asked.

Sam nodded. I looked at Bobby because I really had no idea if either of us were even capable of getting off the floor at the moment. Bobby didn't look any more confident in our abilities than I felt. I hadn't done anything except elbow my brother and I felt like I needed a nap.

"I think I should get a nurse…" Bobby said hesitantly.

Shaking my head, I started to push myself up. "We need to go."

Bobby grabbed my arm and pulled me up. It was a good thing he held on because I almost went down again. He shoved me into the chair, holding my shoulders for a moment as he stared at me. After assessing me, he said, "You should be in bed, Dean."

"I've been in bed." I shook my head. "We're leaving."

By now, Sam was pushing himself to his feet and Bobby moved in time to steady him and help him into the other chair. I noticed Sam's grimace of pain and the way he held a hand across his chest. Sitting next to my dead father's bed, looking at my messed up little brother, I wondered what had happened while I'd been unconscious. I looked back at Bobby.

"Bobby, I don't know… we, I don't know…" I motioned helplessly at the bed.

"I'll take care of it." Bobby said firmly.

Everything suddenly seemed like it would be ok. Bobby knew what he was doing. It was good because I sure didn't. I asked, "So what do we do?"

"I said I'll take care of it. You don't worry about your Dad or anything. You just need to worry about yourselves." He said, looking from me to Sam and back again. "I think you should go back to your room and…"

"I'll go get dressed. You can check me out of this joint while you're doing whatever you need to do." I said firmly. We weren't staying in this hospital any longer.

Bobby gave me a disapproving look, "Dean, the last I knew, you were in a coma. Not expected to live. Now, I'm pleased as punch that you're awake to argue with me, and you may have had a miraculous recovery but you do not look like you should be going anywhere except back to bed."

I stood up under my own power and stared him down. I said, "Bobby, we're all getting out of here. You can help us or we'll do it on our own."

A very high-minded statement for a guy who needed to hold onto a chair to keep from falling over. But I held my ground. Bobby slowly nodded. I glanced over at Dad, then said, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

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**Thanks for reading! Would love to hear what you think. :) **


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi! So, in retrospect, I probably could have done this as a simple one-shot instead of multiple chapters. My muse was overeager with this one when I started out and I envisioned longer chapters and a lot more going on. Then my overeager muse got distracted and busy with other projects and real life. Anyway... here's the latest installment. :)**

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Sam followed me back to my room and I'm not sure if it was because he was worried about me face planting on my way back or if he hadn't wanted to stay in Dad's room. Either way, I couldn't say I blamed him. I reached for the bag of clothes he'd salvaged from the car and started to get dressed, hoping I wouldn't fall over. It became necessary for me to sit down on the edge of the bed after a certain point. I braced my hands on the bed and tried to breathe past the dizziness and pain.

"You ok?"

Sam's voice was so quiet I almost didn't hear him over the sound of my own breathing. I looked up and nodded. He had his backpack over his shoulder and was perched on the edge of the utilitarian recliner that no one could possibly find comfortable. I snapped, "I'm great."

His gaze dropped to the floor and I felt bad for being so sharp. The doctor had mentioned that I'd nearly died in the accident, but also that I'd gone into cardiac arrest while at the hospital. It hadn't occurred to me at the time, but now I knew that Sam had been there. Of course he had. And he'd just watched Dad go into cardiac arrest. And die. I felt like a jerk.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" He didn't look up.

I hesitated. It was stupid to ask if he was alright. Of course he wasn't. Any idiot could tell he was in pain and exhausted. And it wasn't just _my_ father who had died. Didn't matter that they'd butted heads for years. Didn't matter that they'd butted heads the very last time they'd seen each other. Sam had just lost his father too. I said the only thing I could think of, "I'm sorry."

This time, he looked up at me. Eyes bright with unshed tears again, he nodded quickly and mumbled, "Me too."

"What you say we get the heck out of here, Sammy?"

"Are you sure you're ok, Dean?" He asked, voice laced with fear. "You...you almost…"

"I know." I cut him off before he could say it. "I'm tired and sore and angry and ready to be a thousand miles from here. But I'm ok, Sam. I'm going to be fine."

He swallowed hard and nodded.

I took a deep breath and pulled my shirt on, fumbling with the buttons as I shoved my feet into my boots. It was going to be a long way down to tie them up, I thought, looking over the edge of the bed. But Sam was on his knees tying them before I'd even mustered the courage to attempt to lean down. I pulled my jacket on as he straightened, using the bedside table to drag himself to his feet. I grabbed his arm as he swayed.

"Let's get out of here." I said and he nodded wearily. We slung our bags over our shoulders and I kept a hand on his arm as we left the room.

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"He's going to freak out, Bobby."

They thought they were being subtle; Sam probably even thought he'd whispered the words, but it wasn't like I was standing terribly far away. Leaning against the counter, I scribbled my name on the discharge paperwork and looked up. Sam and Bobby were hovering near the door; Bobby looking more patient and kind then I thought I'd ever seen him. And forget about me freaking out, Sam was vibrating with tension and seemed extremely likely to have a meltdown at any moment. I just felt numb.

Passing the paperwork back to the breathtakingly hot nurse, I gave her a half-strength grin, then joined Bobby and Sam at the door. I broke into their focused conversation with a jaunty, "We going somewhere today or what?"

Bobby's expression of patience seemed to have reached its expiration date and he glared at me. Sam just looked more distraught. I knew I should have been a little less flippant, but I wanted to be gone. I brushed past them and stepped outside. The fresh air was wonderful in comparison to the stale, sterile air of the hospital. Checking both directions, I headed straight toward the parking lot. There were footsteps behind me, but no conversation from the peanut gallery. Stalking through the parking lot, I wasn't quite sure which way I should be going. And then I saw her..

"Oh man." I whispered. Now I knew why Sam had been worried I was going to freak out. My baby was in pieces on the flatbed tow truck. The passenger side, the point of impact, was smashed of course and it physically hurt to see it. I blew out a long slow breath and tried to fight off the sudden urge to cry.

"Dean?"

Bobby's voice was soft and it made me want to punch something. I said, "Let's get out of here."

Bobby didn't say anything else, just sighed heavily and headed for the drivers side door of his tow truck. I ran a hand through my hair and stared at the remains of my Impala. She was in bad shape and I didn't know if there was anything I was going to be able to do for her. Broken shards of memories assaulted me. The demon after us. The demon possessing dad; trying to kill me. The trip to the hospital and then nothing except pain and darkness.

"Dean? Are you ok?" Sam's hesitant voice interrupted my memories.

"I'm fine." I nodded, not looking at him. Just walked after Bobby. "Let's go."

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**Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed. I know these are pretty short and pathetic. :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Here you go, folks! Last chapter. :) I just rewatched season 1 and am in the middle of season 2 now, so I finally think I have the right feel for this chapter. I didn't want them to get everything figured out here since I know Dean doesn't talk about his feelings about what happened till much later, but they needed to have a little reprieve after everything that happened during "In my time of dying." Hope this is a good final chapter to this story. Thank you for taking the time to read! I would love to hear from you if you could spare a minute to drop a review. Makes my day. :) **

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We got to the motel without saying a single word. Not one single word. Bobby didn't even say anything when he handed me the key card. He was taciturn on a chatty day so I hadn't expected a long conversation with him. I was, however, waiting for the other shoe to fall with Sam.

But Sam didn't say anything as he climbed out of the truck and walked away, his back to me. He'd gone completely silent after he'd asked me if I was ok back in the hospital parking lot and then stared out the window the entire trip. As much as I hated his nagging, soul-searching and attempts to play junior psychologist, it was unsettling that he wasn't doing any of the above.

With a sigh, I stiffly eased out of the truck and grabbed my gear. I didn't ask what Bobby was going to do. He'd told us at the hospital that he was going to take care of things. Make arrangements. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to think about the hospital. About Dad. About….well, I didn't want to think about anything to be honest.

It had been a long day. It was mid-afternoon now. I'd been in a coma and not expected to live, then in the space of a few short hours of being alive and awake again, Dad had mysteriously died.

Yep. I wanted to go straight to bed and forget about everything.

"Call me if you need anything."

Bobby's voice made me want to punch something. He should have just kept quiet. I needed the quiet. So help me, I was gonna need quiet once Sam started talking. I turned slightly to acknowledge Bobby, not looking at him because I just didn't want to see it. That sympathetic expression that would look all wrong on his curmudgeonly face. I didn't need to see it, though. I knew. Punching and screaming were starting to both sound like great therapeutic responses.

He went on, "I'll get everything squared away at the hospital and head back. I'm in 219. I'll let you know in the morning what the plan is. Call me if you two need anything."

I nodded, still without looking at him, and walked away from the truck. Sam had paused about ten feet away; waiting for me. Glancing at the room key, I brushed past him and pointed toward number 134. Sam followed me into the room and quietly closed the door as he walked inside. I dropped my bag on the grungy carpet and went straight for the nearest bed. I flopped down and buried my face in the pillow. Much as I wanted a drink, I was finished with this day.

For a few long moments, there was no movement. No sound at all. I vaguely wondered if Sam was going to just stand by the front door the rest of the day, but finally I heard him move toward the other side of the room. He moved slowly and like he was afraid he was going to wake me up.

As if I was asleep.

His bag hit the floor. I opened one eye to peek and saw him standing on the far side of the other bed, his back still to me. _Getting to be a habit_… Again I wondered if he was going to stand there all day, but after a few moments, he sat down on the edge of the bed and it looked like it hurt. His movements were stiff and I almost said something, but when he lowered his head to his hands, I realized I wasn't ready to begin the inevitable conversation that would surely occur. So I closed my eyes.

And fell asleep.

* * *

The sunlight was filtering through the too thin curtains and it wasn't the sunlight of the late afternoon, it was the sunlight of very early morning. My neck was stiff, my face was covered in drool and I realized I hadn't moved at all during the night. You'd think after being in a coma you wouldn't need so much sleep. With a groan, I shifted enough that I could push my face out of the wet spot on my pillow and blink my bleary eyes open to look around the room.

It was empty.

I closed my eyes. Maybe if I kept them closed I could continue to ignore the wreck that was my life. Our life. Wouldn't have to think about Dad. About what Dad had said to me. Shaking my head, I gave up ignoring the inevitable and rolled over and rubbed my hands over my face. Taking a deep breath, I eased myself up and glanced at the other bed. Hadn't been slept in.

_Go figure._

Coffee would be great and I held out hope that maybe Sam had gone to get breakfast. Doubtless he hadn't slept all night, so he better have put that insomnia to good use. Groaning, I stood up and glanced at the clock. Just after six. Hadn't realized I'd been that exhausted when I'd flopped down on the bed yesterday. Time to grab a shower and hope to smell the coffee when I got out.

I crossed the room and rounded the other bed only to have a mini heart attack when I nearly stepped on my not so little brother.

"Sam! What the heck?" I ground out, stepping back and staring at him with growing concern.

He was lying on that disgusting carpet, curled up on his side, dead to the world. Heart in my throat, I had a vivid flashback to him lying there on the ground while that demon had beat the crap out of him. I didn't remember anything from the accident and not much before it, but that image I would never forget. Even now, days later, his face was still ashen, bruised and cut; he didn't look good at all.

Crouching down, I shook his shoulder gently. "Hey, Sam. Rise and shine."

I got a half-hearted moan for an answer to my cheery greeting. He didn't move a muscle. So I shook him harder. He didn't get to do this to me. Didn't get to scare the living daylights out of me this early in the morning with his spot on impersonation of a corpse. I didn't need this. Not now. _Not after.._.

"Sam." I stopped trying to be diplomatic and some of my fear and concern leaked through my raised voice.

I hadn't exactly meant to yell, but it had the desired effect. His entire body jolted, eyes popped open and he gasped. I felt a little bad. Not much, though. I kept my hand on his shoulder and waited for him to really wake up. Took a split second.

"Dean?" He blinked up at me with bloodshot, exhausted eyes. "Are you ok?"

"I'm not the one who spent the night on the floor." I shot back with a shake of my head. "What's the matter with you? Bed too soft or something?"

Sam's eyes slid closed again and he sighed. He shrugged under my touch and started to push himself upright. He didn't get too far before he grimaced and wrapped an arm around himself. I helped yank him the rest of the way so he was sitting up against the bed. Well, in theory anyway. Because as soon as he was upright, his face lost more color it didn't have to start with and I had to grab him again to keep him from sliding back down. Holding him by the shoulder, I pushed his head up and gave him a shake that left him groaning but blinking at me again.

"Sammy, what's wrong? You gotta talk to me, man." Panic started to creep up on me and my heart was pounding in my ears. "Sam?"

"Sore."

It was a whisper, but it was a response. I let go of him, moved back slightly and said, "You slept on the floor, idiot. Of course you're sore."

I knew it was more than the bad night's sleep he'd just gotten, though. I didn't remember much, but I remembered he'd been driving when we'd been rammed by the semi. It had only been, what? A few days? I'd lost track of time. But it hadn't been that long. I may have received a dubious miracle of healing, but he hadn't. I again wondered how badly he'd been injured.

Frowning, I asked, "What's sore?"

He snorted; his expression clearly indicating that he thought I was just as much an idiot as I thought he was. Shifting slightly, he said, "Everything."

One word answers. This was going well. I realized I needed to take what I could get when his eyes drifted closed again. I slapped his shoulder. Gently. "Stay awake."

"Why?"

"Because it's morning."

"Since when do you care about mornings?" He sounded alert and irritated. Both an improvement over one word answers and half passing out. Sam mustered a glare, although it looked pathetic.

I rolled my eyes, "Why were you sleeping on the floor?"

He shrugged, "I sat down...and I guess I fell asleep."

Last I'd seen he'd been sitting _on_ the bed, not next to it. He didn't want to, or need to, tell me that he'd that he'd been crying last night. His eyes were red and I just knew. So he'd probably moved to the floor at some point then fallen asleep right there on the carpet. Which was just gross.

"Well that's just dumb. We paid...well Bobby paid, good money for this craptastic motel room." I pulled him to his feet. "Besides, the carpet is disgusting."

He rolled his eyes at me and sat down heavily on the bed. Shoulders slumped, he looked up at me and asked, "Are you ok?"

"You already asked me that." I said, "I'm fine. How bout we talk about what happened to you."

"Nothing happened to me."

He stared at me with a confused look on his face. I realized he honestly didn't have a clue what I was talking about. I yanked a chair from the table and sat down. I said, "How bad were you hurt in the wreck, Sam? Don't lie to me."

"I'm ok, Dean. Really." He said quickly, not bothering to straighten up.

He had his most sincere and convincing look on his face and I was never quite sure if I should believe him when he looked at me like that. I waited. Gave him my _go ahead, convince me_ look. He sighed and went on.

"Banged up. Bruises. Sore. Like I said." He gave me an annoyed look, but mostly it just looked like his head hurt an awful lot. "Whiplash and smacked my head. Not bad like you and..."

"Concussion?" I interrupted. I didn't want to think about or talk about me or Dad.

Sam's laugh was ironic, "Already had one. I'm ok."

"Yeah, I can tell from the way you look like you feel like your head is about to explode."

"I don't…"

"Shut up. They give you any of the good painkillers?"

He sighed and shrugged. His eyes focused on the carpet, "I was a little busy."

My jaw clenched as I stared at him. It wasn't going to do any good to berate him for not taking care of himself. If I'd been in his shoes, I would have done the same. Blowing out a frustrated breath, I ran my hand through my hair and stood up. I didn't know if we had anything. Even Tylenol.

"They gave me some paperwork." Sam's soft voice interrupted my thoughts. He waved vaguely to his bag.

I yanked it open and took exactly two minutes to scan the against medical advice forms he had signed. He'd checked himself out AMA, but he wasn't lying to me. Everything matched up with what he'd told me. He was gonna be sore, but he was going to be fine. Feeling something relax deep inside me, I picked up the prescription form that floated to the carpet. _The good stuff_. I turned back and was surprised to find he'd spread out on his stomach on the bed, the pillow tightly gripped around his head.

Shoving the paperwork back into his bag, I decided to call Bobby to see if he'd run and fill the prescription. I realized I didn't have a phone. _Crap_. I started looking around and finally saw Sam's phone on the bedside table next to him. I grabbed it and was about to sneak out to make my call when I heard him mumble something from under the pillow.

I moved closer and asked, "What?"

"'m sorry bout the car, Dean." It was barely a whisper.

I almost laughed at how stupid it was that he was probably trying to blame himself for us getting T-boned by a demon. That he seemed to think I blamed him. But then my heart just hurt thinking about all of it and I crouched down next to him and poked him gently in the shoulder where I hoped he wasn't hurting too much.

"Hey."

He moved a little and stared at me miserably.

"Not your fault, man." I said, serious as a heart attack. "Not. Your. Fault. Got it?"

"Yeah." Sam said, then started to push himself up. He said, "Dean, what are we…"

I pushed him back down. He wanted to talk and that was just not happening. Not until he had some Vicodin or something in him. And definitely not until I had some whiskey in me. And, preferably, never. I squeezed his neck, realizing exactly how tense he was.

Keeping my hand on him, I said, "Shut up and close your eyes and get some use out of that bed since it's paid for and all. I can't believe you slept on the carpet. That's just disgusting."

He stared at me for a second with watery eyes, then nodded and relaxed back into the pillow. Sam closed his eyes and muttered under his breath, "I'm glad you're ok even if you are a jerk."

Rubbing his neck, I laughed, "What's that, bitch? Can't hear you over the sound of how awesome I am."

I knew he wanted to say something smart back at me, but he was too tired and his head hurt too much to even make the attempt. So he just let me try to release a few of the knots and we both spent a few minutes being grateful we were alive.

Not today, not tomorrow, and probably not for a long time, but eventually… eventually we were both going to be fine.

_Fin_

* * *

**Thanks for reading! **


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